Friday, August 23, 2013

Echos of Love Lost

I saw the love of my life last week on my vacation. Though that's not really what he is anymore, I guess.

He's the one I fell in love with so hard I nearly broke every bone in my body when I landed.

He helped me end my first marriage, and then nearly ended my second one.

I have a tattoo on my wrist inspired by him, and many more on my heart.

His is the cock to which I compare all others. He's the first man to make my knees weak, to make me crave his smell, to make me want to kneel and worship.

He was not subject to one of the many blowjobs described in my previous post. I didn't even kiss him. We held hands. I listened hard for the tiniest echo of the desire that once rang so loudly I could hear nothing else.


The second night we hung out, I leaned on him. He slapped my knee when I made a joke. When it was time to say goodnight we stood by the side of his truck and hemmed and hawed. "Go home," I said, a hand on his chest pushing him away, but also, I knew, keeping him there. He bent his tallness over me. I could feel his breath on my forehead. If I looked up, he'd kiss me. I didn't look up. "Go home," I repeated, a hand on his wrist, pulling him closer. But then I stepped away. "Good night," I said, and walked away.

I was trying to feel something. I wanted to revisit the inescapable magnetic force field that once surrounded us. It wasn't there. As soon as I walked away I was glad. He loves the woman he's with and would have felt guilty about betraying her. I'm committed to never falling in love again with anyone but my husband.

The fact that I even risked renewing our obsession shows that the echo of  it still wields some dangerous power.

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Blow Jobs Great and Small

I've sucked a lot of cock in the past few weeks. Far more than usual for me. I'm losing count, thinking it over.

The queer boy. I didn't ask for hir story. Maybe ze is post-op? Whatever. No matter. There was a cock, somewhat small and inclined to floppiness, and I sucked it to the sound of moans and commendation and the taste of my stale spit.

The Craig's List couple. I wanted to watch, first. She went down on him and I found her clit with a finger, marveling narcissistically that even though it felt like I was touching myself, I couldn't feel it.  Their mouths were sticky sweet from diet coke and chewing gum, but when it was my turn, his magnificent dick tasted of warm flesh only and slid clean down my throat while she fondled my breasts and he fingered me to orgasm.

Complicated Lover, who has my favorite dick ever. Everything about him in bed is right. Why do I fuck anyone else when there's this? When I give him head I drool and slobber and lose my rhythm and probably bite. I mean, I've got no technique. He's too thick to swallow and besides the concentration that takes is impossible.

My husband. He'd just showered. I forgave a taste of salt and notched the tip of his cock into that spot in my throat that makes him groan He likes to keep his cock there, sometimes shoving my head down so I take it deeper but never slipping into my mouth to be sucked or stroked with my tongue. When we fuck, it's the same, he likes me to grind against him, and it's good, it makes me come. Giving head can make me come, too, with a little help, but instead he pushed his balls against my cheek and they were like used saran wrap, sticky and slick, and my desire died.

The Quiet Man, whom I've come to love. I enjoy the curve of his dick, which seems to send it exactly where we both need it to go. Sometimes the more I give him head, the softer he gets. I feel guilty. Not that I can't please him, because I know I do. I think he'll keep a hard on when he's with someone he can really open his heart to. He's waiting for true love, and I wish I could give it to him. Instead I give him tenderness and the best blow job I know how to muster.